Mister Faded Glory | www.misterfadedglory.com

We spend a lot of time fretting about legacies.

Instantly a president takes office, and we wonder if his eyes are on the future, and his history book chapters.

We’re predisposed to bemoaning sports icons’ legacies – most of us think it would have been all too perfect for Michael Jordan to walk away from basketball after cashing the jumper over Bryon Russell; and most scarcely want to remember his tenure with the Wizards. John Elway – now there’s an athlete who went out on top. The Chargers’ John Unitas, the Raptors’ Hakeem Olajuwon – those guys just barely hung on. We even worried that Mario Lemieux would be a shell of himself when he descended from the owners’ suite.

We also obsess about closure over TV shows and our beloved characters. We wanted Seinfeld to end as note-perfect as its heyday. (Note: Fail.) Sam couldn’t possibly end up with Diane, could he? Or Kevin Arnold with Winnie? We cringe watching late years of The Cosby Show or Night Court or Newsradio or Wings or you name it – the surfing episode of The Simpsons (cleverly titled “Worst Episode Ever”) comes to mind. Comedies take themselves way too seriously if they hang around too long. Dramas, conversely, become laughable. ER, anyone?

This is all hogwash, of course. Brett Favre deserves to play as long as he can string them up, no matter how annoying he is. Jordan and Olajuwon and Unitas and Jerry Rice earned enough leeway to lace ‘em up and play as long as they wanted. We all would, were we ever that good. At anything. Talent and success and moments and fame are all fleeting – and it’s better to continue your passion and your craft as long as you can. Beats tiptoeing toward a graceful exit, just because some onlooker muses so.

In fact, we feel the opposite about bands. We line up for Springsteen shows, decades after his, uh, glory days. We rush to download Pearl Jam albums, even though we know they won’t top Ten through No Code. We mourn Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and anyone else who had only a burst of greatness. We even lionize Bob Dylan‘s latest, no matter what, though his influence was set in stone with Highway 61. And we eagerly bought Alice In Chains‘ new record. We’re just glad they’re here.

Tonight, of course, Scrubs Version 2.0 premiered. I’m about to watch it on DVR. And I’m excited. I’ve been guilty of tweeting and whining that the show can’t possibly hold a candle to its fastball years of seasons 1 through 4. I’ve snickered at Zach Braff, predictably reprising J.D. even as he swore Season Nine was the last. I’ve fretted that the picture-perfect whimsical character comedy I knew and loved would become a shell of itself.

But who am I to judge? Besides, Scrubs‘ descent already happened. The narratives and authenticity and humor slipped somewhere in the fifth season, and the last few seasons were nowhere near the caliber of the early years. But you know what? I watched it. I liked it. It’s one of my favorite comedies ever, and I don’t hold a stupid musical episode against it.

In fact, I still revere Newsradio - even though that show was awful after Phil Hartman’s passing. I still forgive The Office, and maintain the first 36 episodes of that show are as good as its UK counterpart. Moreover, I still tune in even as The Office’s quality plummeted down a well a couple years ago. The Simpsons‘ writers and actors know that show’s prime was more than 10 years ago – but a couple of laugh-out-loud jokes per episode, and the enjoyment of doing it, and their shared pride at the show’s prime justify pressing on. Who are we to point fingers, and say they’re wrong? Shouldn’t we respect, instead? At least a little?

Anyway, creator Bill Lawrence launches Scrubs V. 2.0. And I suspect Lawrence, as well as Braff, Donald Faison, John C. McGinley, and Ken Jenkins know the show isn’t close to its early-decade peak. But I’m just as sure they’re all fine with it. For Lawrence, the creator of Spin City and Cougar Town, he knows this show is the best thing he has done – his magnum opus – and probably the best thing he’ll ever do. To have a chance to continue … well, there’s just no way he should turn it down. Who would?

So tonight, I’m queuing up Scrubs, with JD and Turk and Cox at some university or something woefully contrived. Still, I’ll enjoy it. I’ll laugh a few times, and I’ll howl at callbacks and inside jokes planted almost a decade ago. I’ll respect Lawrence, the actors, and the writers, and I’ll enjoy the characters a little more. After all, I’m just glad they’re here.